Happily married man survives night alone unscathed

Tonight my shoes are in the middle of the living room floor. My right and left sock are hanging willy nilly from the bedroom doorknob and bookshelf respectfully. My clothes never left the bathroom once I got out of the tub that incidentally is covered in grungy man film and my own body hair. Were I to invite you on a scavenger hunt in my home right now, I'd challenge to find a half-eaten sandwich, a three-day weekend's worth of junk mail, empty CD cases and cans of diet soft drink that are only half empty. Or are they half full? In the VCR is a videocassette that dates back to my bachelor days (if you catch my drift) and at the top of my lungs I'm singing along to my downloaded 80s-era mp3's by Falco, Taco, Devo and Barry Manilow. When those are done I plan to move on to 70s mellow gold. Yes, I'm devolving not just musically but also developmentally. My wife has taken the baby out of town to visit the grandparents. Tonight I'm batching it.

As I write I'm sitting in my throne. For some men the throne is a reclining La-Z-Boy-style chair with cup holders and convenient pockets for the TV Guide and remote control(s). Mine's a bit more streamlined. I bought it a decade ago when it came from Rooms To Go with an identical couch, a coffee table and two end tables complete with generic lamps. The couch, tables and lamps have long since gone the way of garage sales or the trash, but this chair remains. My wife affectionately refers to it as "the plaid chair", but I know it' as the throne. Along with an old Bullwinkle t-shirt, this chair's the only thing of mine in the home that predates my marriage. Well, OK, there's that VHS collection I mentioned, but I generally keep that hidden away. Ahh, if this chair could talk! Well sure, most of what it would say would be about being covered in stale french fries and spilled box wine but it'd also talk about sexual escapades involving me and . . . that VHS collection I mentioned earlier.

Right now I want to shout, shout, let it all out. These are the things I can do without: emissions testing; overdue sperm bank bills; middle management; the lawn that still needs to be mowed; alarms set to go off at 7:28AM; and jobs that need to be reported to at 8:00AM at which point I'll get into my car where I can lock all my doors. Wait, where was I? Here in my thrown I fell asleep and dreamed that I ran. I ran so far away. Tracy Lordes, hold me now. Warm my heart. Stay with me. We can dance if we want to. 'Cause your friends don't blog and if they don't blog then they're no friends of mine. It's a safety dance.

How embarrassing!

You'll have to forgive me.


You see, I suffer from My Own E-Hollywood Story Disorder. The visions always start with the same image. I'm wearing a Boone's Farm-stained Bullwinkle t-shirt and I'm sitting in a tasteless plaid Rooms-to-Go-esque chair. Tina Turner walks in and she's my private dancer. Sometimes the music playing is 80s glam but any old music will do nicely, thank you. She does what I want her to do which is take on me and take me on. For a brief moment part of me wonders if I can escape my responsibilities into a world of music video animation where it's better to be safe than sorry. I start to shed tears, but they're only tears for fears, and then I think Hey now. Hey now. Iko iko I, eh?

If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can't I paint you? Screw Tracy Lordes. I'm ready for my wife to get home. I may be climbing on rainbows, but Lainey here goes. Dreams, they're for those who sleep. Life is for us to keep. Elaine, if you're wondering what this blog is leading to . . .

I wanna make it with you.

I really think that we could me it, Girl.

Incomplete comparisons in TV advertising are worse ...

As a language and linguistics geek, someone who thinks in terms of misplaced modifiers and interdental fricatives, I am quick to pick up on things like new turns of phrase, double entendres and "improper" grammar. I put improper in quotes because I'm a member of the descriptive linguist camp. That means I think grammar should be defined as what people actually say and therefore it evolves over time as opposed to a descriptivist who says grammar is a list of hard fast rules and those who vary from them are wrong. Descriptivists point to things like the transition from our use of thee and thou to you as an example of changing grammar. Prescriptivists pull their hair out when they hear someone say things like You need to put that up or Do you want to come along?, ending a sentence in a preposition being, in their view, a mortal sin. A Linguistics professor might shudder at my concise and simplistic definition of the two (unless he’s a devout descriptivist), but you get the idea. Before I go into a lengthier geekier diatribe, let me just say I don’t care when people end their sentences in prepositions, or if they write nite instead of night or if they pronounce ask as “ax”. There is however a change in our language that seems to be occurring that even I, the linguistic hippy, can’t stand and it’s being promulgated by the media, specifically television commercials.

I don’t hear the soft drink commercial anymore but there used to be an ad where the announcer said Diet Dr. Pepper tastes more like regular Dr. Pepper. I cringed every time I heard this commercial. Diet Dr. Pepper tastes more like regular Dr. Pepper . . . than what? A pastrami on rye? Ocean water? A bucket of shit? Or is the implied comparative more complex than that? Maybe they mean to say that Diet Dr. Pepper tastes more like regular Dr. Pepper than Diet Coke tastes like regular Coke. We, the consumers, are left in the dark on this and apparently invited to come up with our own ending to the comparison. Sure Diet Dr. Pepper may taste more like regular Dr. Pepper than a plate of mashed potatoes but does it taste more like regular Dr. Pepper than its Pepsi doppelganger, Mr. Pibb? I doubt it.

Wendy’s had a similar irksome catch phrase in their ad a few months back. Wendy’s: It’s better here. Remember that? It’s better here than where? Hell? It’s better here than Afghanistan? It’s better here than a sick drunk’s toilet? Where exactly is Wendy’s better than? Does anyone remember if they even compared their burgers to other fast food joints so as to offer up proof as to why they’re better and suggest to us who exactly it is they’re better than? I’m sure the advertising execs for Wendy’s want us to think it’s better at Wendy’s than at Burger King, but I can’t help but think the ad should say Wendy’s: It’s better here . . . than when we used to serve human fingers in the chili. Furthermore what is it ? What’s better here? The food is better here? The service? Mold growth in the kitchen? I could go on an on.

And I think I will. Just yesterday I saw an ad on television for Monster.com that proclaimed If you post your resume on Monster, you’re twice as likely to get hired. Dear blog reader, are you catching on? Can you see why this bugs me as well?. If you post your resume on Monster you’re twice as likely to get hired . . .as you would get struck by lightning? Win the lottery? Because those odds don’t encourage me to post my resume on Monster. Now on the other hand if the commercial promised me that if I posted my resume on Monster I’d be twice as likely to get hired as I would swallow after eating or be held down by the forces of gravity, well now, those are some good odds. Or again, maybe I’m misinterpreting the comparison. If you post your resume on Monster, you’re twice as likely to get hired than if you had just posted it on the wall in the men’s room. Maybe those who post their resumes on Monster are twice as likely to get hired as those who are listed on the local Sex Offenders Registry. Could someone please clarify?

I know this is one of those things that I should just let ride. The inboxes of these companies are probably chocked full of emails from geeks like me saying the same thing. The rest of the viewing public likely has more pressing issues than whether a fast food ad complies with widely accepted usage rules of the English language. If Dave and Wendy and the good people at Dr. Pepper and Monster don't care that they're sending incomplete comparisons over the airways and therefore beginning to but not totally making their point, what do I care? I'm only one man, a proper noun swimming in a sea of ambiguous antecedents. Why didn't those geniuses at Schoolhouse Rock come up with a catchy ditty about this one?

Commercials used to simply tout their products' qualities and show us some smiling character happy to be enjoying whatever the ad was for. Sometimes they'd throw in an interrogative quip like Where's the beef? or Wouldn't you like to be a Pepper too? Those were ads that made me want to buy a product instead of dedicating a couple of hours to explaining why the ads are an English language schoolmarm's worst nightmare. Commercials were better then.

Then they are today, I mean.

You knew that's what I meant.

Right?

First Horizon Bank in Lawrenceville does not get my business

First Horizon Bank
ATTN Staunch Lady with No People Skills
870 Lawrenceville Suwanee Road
Lawrenceville, GA 30043
Phone: (770) 338-7600

Dear Staunch Lady with No People Skills,

On Friday, May 20, 2006 around 11:30 my wife and I entered your branch as you were standing with some coworkers apparently admiring the carpet pattern or perhaps your moderately priced shoes. As we were also carrying our infant daughter our presence increased the number of non-employees in the building to three. When you approached my wife and asked if you could be of assistance, my wife explained that we were in need of a notary. You asked whether we had an account at your bank, and we stated that we did not. At that point you were kind enough to inform us of your bank's seemingly inane rule that no such services were to be provided to non-account holders. When my wife pointed to an empty desk and mentioned that the person who normally sits there, a more accommodating and all around more pleasant colleague of yours, had provided us with notary services in the past, you shrugged and explained that "Erin probably didn't know better."

Ms Staunch Lady with No People Skills, I suggest to you that Erin does know better. She, unlike you, tries to impress upon all who visit her bank and ensure that they leave with a positive impression of the company. Erin may suspect that although someone does not possess an account at her bank she could, after providing him some service and a smile, entice him to become a customer. After all, if such a person enters a bank looking for a notary, one might assume that he is a) not a member of any bank and therefore might be interested in opening an account or, as is the case with me, b) a member of a bank that is not conveniently located to his home and therefore might be interested in changing banks. Indeed Erin evidently understands the value of cordial service and cooperation. You and the other off-task individuals who were lollygagging with you might do well to take a lesson from her.

Per your suggestion, my wife and I proceeded to Kroger where we found someone who gladly met our needs. In the future we will remember that you and your bank frankly do not care to turn pedestrians into patrons. Should we need any banking services from now on, be it notaries, mortgages, or checking accounts, we will seek assistance elsewhere. Thank you again for your lack of understanding and mindless adherence to such cooked-up rules.

Respecfully,

Kevin Black

People need to get over The Da Vinci Code

I wasn't going to be one of those people who chimed in on The Da Vinci Code because I think all too often those who do spout off about the latest craze, whatever it is, just paint themselves to look like mindless me-toos. With some people it's as though they have no opinion until someone else tells them what to think. Sadly I too suffer from a weakness, specifically the occasional inability to suppress my need to explain why my opinion is obviously better than someone else's. I know I should just keep my mouth shut and take comfort in knowing I'm superior, but sometimes I just can't. You see there are two kinds of people in this world: those who think like me and those who should, and I like to sometimes help the latter join the army of rightness. Chalk it up to my philanthropic narcissism disorder. Anyway, back to The Da Vinci Code.

I just don't understand the incessant wrangling that surrounds this book. My wife and I did this as a read aloud where I would read to her before we went to bed. Being no stranger to Paris and even having attended a mass at Saint-Sulpice Cathedral where the character Silas breaks open the floor to look for a mysterious clue, we loved learning the historical facts about the buildings and following the plot through Paris and other parts of Europe. Chapters are short. Dialogue is plenty. It's a page turner for sure. We enjoyed the book.

The part to this whole scuttlebutt I'm having difficulty with are the people who make reference to and take offense with the book's "claims." Characters in the book believe that Christ had a wife and kids. So what? First of all, the author doesn't assert the book is nonfiction, so where does this "claim" come from? Even if the author believes this alternative view of Christ, as I understand he does, a work of fiction cannot make claims. By definition it is make believe. Following the fiction making claims logic we'd have to assume that Stephen King claims balloon-wielding clowns are mass murderers, that L. Frank Baum claims lions are cowards and that Dr. Seuss claims one might actually enjoy feasting on green eggs and ham in a box with a fox. Come on, people.

If someone approached you in the street and said the sky was plaid, would you take offense and try and argue because you knew it to be otherwise? Of course not. You'd assume the tool you'd just met was a few bricks short of a load and move on. If he wants to believe the sky is plaid, let him be. You know the blueness of the sky as a divine truth, one that's been reiterated to you over and over by family and community. You grew up not only believing the sky was blue but knowing it was. You didn't just read it in a book; you see the blue sky everyday. You embrace yourself with the blueness of the sky and make it part of your daily life. Blue Sky isn't just a theory for you. It's a fact. You define yourself as a Blue Skyist. The sky is blue and the blue is good.

If on the other hand the same man approached you in the street and said something for which you had a reasonable degree of doubt, for instance that it was going to rain, you might offer up some opinion to the contrary. "I don't know," you might say,"the weatherman claimed it was supposed to be sunny all week." Of course you don't know whether it's going to rain, but you doubt that it will. The key, or for Dan Brown fans, what's in the cryptex is the doubt. That's what makes the point arguable.

I would therefore propose that the reason people are getting so up in arms about this book is not because of anything in the books pages so much as it is those people's own lack of faith in what they claim to be their belief system. When religion blends with doubt the result is often a watered down religiosity in which the practitioners, fearful of their own agnosticism, hide behind a mask of piety and point fingers at everyone but themselves. This alternative view of Christ is not new. It's been around since the Middle Ages, and if it holds some veracity, then we can assume it dates back farther than that. The only reason it's come to light now is because people who seemingly have never been taught to think for themselves cannot spearhead their own movement and instead have to ride in on the coattails of someone more famous. Apparently "Though shalt not steal" does not apply to limelight.

The movie Da Vinci Code is coming out soon and you can bet your bottom dollar that for every zealot who jumps up and screams in protest about the movie, they're going to drum up ten movie goers who were it not for the upset wouldn't have had any desire to go see the film in the first place. You know what I say? Good.

Though I wonder if like in the book there was a grand-scale conspiracy on the part of the Catholic Church are we now in the midst of some great put-on organized by none other than the neo-reborn nut-jobs? Do Liberty University and The 700 Club get kickbacks from the movie's proceeds.

What role does Tinky Winky play in all of this?

Nightowl sacrifices own rest for sake of blog

This newfound parenthood has afforded me a simple luxury I haven't had in some time, staying up into the wee hours. It's 2:39AM now, and I'll probably be up at least another hour before my shift is over. Late night feedings are hard only if you have to pull yourself out of bed in order to get them done. If on the other hand you don't hit the sack until four, you not only get the feedings done lickity split but you also get time to yourself to enjoy the serenity and solitude that only nighttime can offer.

As a kid I would stay up all hours of the night during the summer months to watch television. With the exception of the four-to-five-o'clock hour I had a full schedule of shows I'd watch. Both Carson and Letterman were must-sees whether they were reruns or not. Alan Thicke used to have a show called In the Thicke of the Night. It wasn't as funny as Johnny or Dave's shows but viewing choices were slim at that time. Pat Robertson's channel would let up on the prostheletizing during the witching hour and show old reruns of Burns and Allen and The Jack Benny Show. I loved those.

As a kid, my mother would share the nighttime quietude with me. OK, share isn't really the right word for it. I suppose competed for nighttime quietude is more like it. White nights are best spent alone, and she really wasn't fond of me encroaching on her peaceful alone time. Now I share the darkness with my angel of a daughter and demon of a cat. The baby is actually asleep now but that damn cat insists on choosing four in the morning as the ideal time to run top speed from one end of the house to the other and back again. He has a bathrobe sash that my wife gave him that he sometimes runs through the house with trying to attract my attention. He dives over furniture, darts past the sleeping dog, and leaps from the kitchen counter to the fridge to our ledge space, the sash dragging behind him like a snake. Occasionally he'll drop it at my feet wanting me to throw it for him to fetch. I keep wanting him to curl up with me and the baby the way he does with me and my wife, but whenever my infant daughter cries or makes a noise the cat just stares at her loathingly with a look that seems to say I just hope they kept the receipt.

The downside of staying up all hours of the night is that eventually I will have to go to bed, and then only a few hours later I will have to wake up, groggy and tired after having gotten only a few hours rest. But I will take comfort in knowing that at the end of the day when my wife and daughter have fallen asleep, the glider in the nursery will be waiting for me once again. Until then goodnight stars; goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere.

Get out of my way

You know what really chaps my ass? Being accosted by people asking me for something before I walk into a store. As I have outlined before, I already have enough issues going to the grocery store without someone's attempts at guilting me into donating to their cause or buying their product. Shopping for the most part is not something I find pleasurable, so when the time comes I want to get in there, get what I need, and get out. And I'd really prefer to do it without having to politely smile and decline some fireman with a boot or little snot-nosed cherubin selling cookies. Is that so wrong?

Today it was the fire department. A bunch of guys in front of Kroger holding out their nasty rubber footwear for me to throw money into it. I am not anti-fire protection. Nobody likes fire. It hurts to be burned. But Mr. Fireman, I subsidize your service to me through tax contributions. If my elected officials don't think you need any more money, why should I? Yes, I understand you're using the monies to "give burns the boot" through education and awareness programs. You fund a camp for young burn victims and that's nice and all, but I'd just like to get my eggs and maple syrup without any further meddling from you, ok? Besides, turning off the ignition to your behemoth fire engine while you ask for charity just might save you a couple hundred dollars that you can then throw in whoever's shoe you want.

This may not be a popular sentiment, but I'm just going to come out and say it. Girl Scouts, why would I spend just under four dollars on your box of cookies (whose quantity is skimpy at best) when I can step around you and go buy a bigger box of better tasting cookies inside the store for less money? Your marketing department has done well promoting your product with missionary-like zeal and creating a consumer buzz that for whatever reason continues year after year. I grant you that. But Samoas aren't so good that I'm going to forego buying more of a yummier cookie just so you can earn your pyramid scam badge. And just for your information, those little Keebler elves also keep kosher. Oh, and troop moms, asking the girl who can barely squeeze into her uniform anymore to hawk the cookies isn't going to increase sales.

Speaking of which, I realize this is a bit off the topic, but if your rec league, civic organization, or cult is going to raise money by hosting a car wash, don't let the fat dumpy kids hold the signs.

My father was one of those who touted that he wasn't going to shop at Target last Christmas because they stopped letting the Salvation Army bell ringers solicit donations outside their stores. Whatever. To me this is like boycotting a gas station because they took out their payphone. Target asking the bell ringers to take it elsewhere in no way affects those who want to donate to the Salvation Army. If you're so gung ho about donating your sheckels, I'm sure the good people at Salvation Army would be happy to accept your check in the mail. You can probably even donate online. In fact, here's a link. As for those of us who don't wish to put up with the moaning and the groaning of the loud alarum bells, we now have a more pleasant shopping experience.

Softball kids, now I generally let you slide when you're selling those hotdogs outside my Kroger, mainly because your grill is not directly in my way when I'm running in to pick up diapers again. I can easily smell your hot dogs and they smell good. Furthermore you often offer complimentary condiments and various relishes to accompany the hotdog and that's a good thing. But listen, I do not need you to corner me in the vestibule and ask if I want to buy a hotdog. If I did, I would have walked up to someone in uniform and asked. Do you really think I got out of my car, smelled your dogs and thought Gee, too bad those yummy smelling hotdogs are only for those kids in baseball caps. No, I assume you're selling them. If I want one I'll approach you. But if you step in front of me while I'm trying to secure the last of the few carts with four operable wheels, you might find yourself having to "take one for the team." Capiche?

You people who give away puppies and kittens to good homes in front of the store, it's time we parted ways. I used to love going up to your little furballs and would even pick them up and pet them, but that's because I had the willpower to then put them back in their box and go on my merry way. Before long I'm going to be wielding a toddler on my grocery visits and I don't want to have to drag her away kicking and screaming because Daddy wouldn't get her a new kitty. Like I said, it's been real, but I hope you can understand where I'm coming from.

People, grocery stores are for grocery shopping, not guilt riding. Should a fireman accost you outside the supermarket for money, fight fire with fire. Invite him to accompany you to the register where he can empty his boot and pay for your groceries. If we all work together, we can help give bums the boot.

A tribute to moms

I am struggling not to let my little corner of cyber space become too syrupy with baby pictures and parental epiphanies. Though I fancy myself an upbeat kinda guy, I realize my cyber-self can sometimes come across as cantankerous and opinionated. I like it that way, and I want it to stay that way. That's what makes for interesting blog reading, or at least that's my cantankerous opinion anyway. Rest assured I will return to my male patterned bitchiness within the next few days, but I feel it necessary, if for no other reason than because the calendar demands it, that I first dedicate a few words to the one who brung us here, Mother.

Funnily enough moments before writing this evening I was clicking through endless arrays of blogs looking for quality stuff to fill in my blog roll and most of what I found worth reading was from those mom bloggers. You know who I'm talking about, and if you're one of them then you know who you are. No sooner than they've wrestled their future soccer player from his car seat in the minivan they go racing in to their computer to write an epistle on their progeny, whether about his homerun, his funny quip, or his latest bowel movement. And you know what? Some of what they write is witty, insightful and often well worth the read. In short, that little write up on Johnny's bowel movement is some funny shit (jeu de mots prétendu). Now frankly I think those mom bloggers, having become somewhat of a cult, do enough self promotion without me throwing them a bone and I've already got some of the best ones on my blogroll, so forgive me if I don't add any more. But so-called "crazy hip blog mamas", this paragraph's for you.

As for mamas closer to my heart, I have to first give a shout out to my own. I'm talking about the woman who took me to every dance recital as a kid and who as recently as today came over at a moment's notice to babysit and change a diaper just so my wife and I could eat in peace. Looking back, my mother taught me so much over the years that I cannot begin to list them all here and give her full credit. However of all of the qualities I have cherished most in my mother and tried to carry on into my own adult life, I would have to say the chart toppers are generosity and politesse. My mother has never been a tree shaker or a chain rattler and yet I have always felt that she has been afforded by all who come into contact with her the highest degree of respectability. This may sound reaching to some, but I credit her for my ability to successfully negotiate numerous interactions with people from social endeavors to real estate transactions just by being kind. My mother taught me that sometimes the squeaky wheel just gets replaced and more often than not a smile is the safer road to take.

Another thing I can't thank my mother enough for is her instilling in me the ability to and the value of reading. One of my favorite activities when I was a kid was being read to by my mother before falling asleep. Many times the story she chose to read was from the Disney Storyland Treasury. The book was older than I was, a hand-me-down from my older brother probably and I still remember the smell of those pages. Other times she would read to me one of those read along classics like The Marvelous Mud Washing Machine or Where Did That Naughty Little Hamster Go? I was also a sucker for The Little Engine That Could. I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed hearing these stories over and over. While it goes back several Mother's Days, I once saved up money and snuck away from my mother in the drugstore to go next door and buy her a gift from the used book store. I was probably nine or so at the time and had no idea what authors she read, but I knew what the covers looked like on her books of choice. I selected a paperback with a woman in torn clothing running away from a castle. It was trash. It was romance. It was just what my mother loved to read. The point is, I associated her with reading. My mother taught me that books weren't something reserved for school. I will forever be thankful to her for that.

Another mom who deserves recognition in my book is -- wonder of wonders -- my mother-in-law. Mothers-in-law get a really bad rap when you think about it, and I'm sure some rightfully deserve it. I worked with a fellow French teacher my first year in the classroom for instance who said to me, "When you get married, marry somebody who's mother has already died . . . and I'm not kidding." Well, I chose to marry someone whose mother was alive and kicking and I couldn't be more grateful. I enjoy chatting (and catting) with my mother-in-law on the phone and in person. Whereas my own mother instilled in me the importance of convention, what I appreciate in my wife's mother is her candor. She is forthright and honest. One of the drawbacks to Southern charm is that one never knows if, behind that drawl, the speaker is being sincere in their kind words or just being Southern. If my Yankee mother-in-law pays you a compliment, you can rest assured it's genuine, and furthermore a rare gem in the rough.

Most recently my wife is the one who joins the list of mothers that have shaped my life. Now she's always been the champion homemaker, and by that I don't mean someone who sits on the couch and watches trash television but someone who turns a house into a soothing inviting place to kick back, enjoy a glass of Pinot Noir and relax at the end o the day. Looking at her with our new daugher you would hardly believe she was the type who worries whether she's heated the bottle to the right temperature, swaddled our baby correctly or is just plain "doing it right." Seemingly effortlessly my wife has gone from sexy jet setter career woman to mother of the year. I'm not just saying that either. She has really impressed me with the warmth and nurturing she has shown this new baby of ours. It never would have dawned on me that a woman so concerned with whether her management skills were up to par or whether her throw pillows were positioned correctly could overnight, just by procreating, become a tender and sheltering mother of all mothers. We're only seven days into this parenting thing and I can already see her taking our daughter to dance recitals, cheering for her at the swim meet and even reading aloud to her I think I can I think I can I think I can I think I can.

Sigmund Freud would reportedly begin his sessions of psychoanalysis by asking his patients to tell him about their mother, the theory being that the relationship one holds with one's mother has great bearing on how one acts as an adult. If I were on Freud's couch, I think I'd have to counter his question and ask what mother he's referring to. Regardless of our marital situation we all have women that we look to for guidance, caring and fortitude. I suggest this Mother's Day, we reflect not just on our own mother but on all our mothers. I'm not the type to pander to the left and suggest it takes a village, but it never hurts to have a few strong women in the mix.

And there are some damn fine moms out there.

Six days of daddyhood

As sleepless nights have blurred into restless days for this past week, I have little concept of time. Looking at the calendar, I can tell that only seven days ago my wife and I were downing ginger pork and coconut chicken soup at our favorite Thai place, our last decent meal before heading to the hospital for induction. I was jittery and somewhat irritable. I couldn't finish my dish. I always enjoy a glass of plum wine with Asian food but this time I came close to asking if I could order it by the bottle.

Our first night in the hospital was spent in our labor and delivery suite, which by hospital standards was rather spacious. There was dim lighting and faux hardwood flooring. To my wife's delight, there was cable television, something we normally manage to do without, and to my delight the hospital provided free wireless internet serivce. To my chagrin however there was the saddest excuse for a pullout sleeper you could ever imagine. It was barely comfortable to sit on, much less lay on. Rather than leather or fabric it was covered in coarse plastic like you find on the seat of a school bus. It also wasn't a pullout couch; it was a pullout chair that after great efforts on the part of the soon-to-be victim extended out into a cot about the size of a massage table. This thing was so uncomfortable that I seriously considered spreading my hospital-provided bed linens out on the faux hardwood and sleeping on the floor. On top of all that, my wife and I both were kept awake most of the night by our neighboring patient's delivery which by the sound of her wailing was done à naturelle.

The early part of the next day consisted of a barrage of people parading in and out of my wife's room to take her blood pressure, take her temperature, shove things up in her down there place, take things out of her down there place and bring her a feast of chicken broth and ice chips. Clearly my role in the whole thing was minimal. One nurse actually asked me my name which made me swoon, but come to think of it her reason for asking may have been just for billing pourposes. After all, I did help myself to the popsicles and cranberry juices which were supposedly reserved for delivering preggers.

Around ten that morning after much poking, prodding and examining, my wife's doctor suggested she go ahead and get the epidural. They had her sit on the edge of the bed with her knees in between mine. I don't know what purpose this really serves other than maybe indulge me to think I play a vital role in all of this. More likely it's so that as an anesthesiologist works a needle up through her spinal cord the woman can give the evil eye to whatever guy got her into this mess to begin with. I did just fine for the inital alcohol swabbing. When the doctor said he was inserting the needle, I was fine for that too. It wasn't until he threw that intravenous tube up over her shoulder that I nervously looked up at the nurse and asked if she could take my place. While some people have a problem with needles, my problem is with things going in a vein. Finger pricks I can handle and even dental needles I can live through, but when something's going inside a vein, I need the cold compresses and my feet propped up. The day my daughter was to be born was no exception.

"I need some crackers and peanut butter in here for my dad, please," the nurse shouted into the intercom. Meanwhile I staggered back to that God-forsaken prison-cot-slash-chair like a rookie player heading back to the bench. Queasiness was something I had feared would happen. Oh well. The crackers were pretty good.

At around 2:45PM that afternoon I was on the phone with my mom trying to give her an idea on when we might be delivering a baby. Elaine and I had taken bets. I said 10:30PM while she had guessed 8:30PM. It turns out we were both wrong. When the nurse came in to check on Elaine she announced that we were at ten centimeters. Even a pregnancy illiterate like me knows that being dialated ten centimeters in delivery is like being at the top of the ninth in baseball. As nurses were stammering around quickly trying to assemble the various baby birthing tools and summon the doctor, I hung up with my mom with the promise to call her back once we had more news. I got up to look at the down there place. There was what looked like the top of a head with hair. I asked the nurse to confirm my suspicions. Indeed, the baby was crowning.

Originally I had planned to be what they refer to in the obstetric field as a "north daddy" where the equator is an imaginary line running from one of your wife's hips to the other. In the heat of the moment however, I decided "south daddies" are where it's at. I wasn't going to come this far without seeing the grand finale. Elaine's first push happened around 2:55. A few minutes after that she pushed again, thus expelling the baby's head. The third push which happened at 3:05 in the afternoon was a grand slam. As Elaine's delivering obstetrician so eloquently put it, "You could drive a truck through her pelvis." Meryl Elizabeth came out crying loud and proud. The daughter I had been waiting months to meet finally had arrived. She was strong. She was invincible. She was mine.

Since we began dating my wife and I have celebrated May 5 as Email Day. It was that day in 1997 that I first emailed her after having acted in community theater together. For weeks we exchanged friendly emails and later our exchanges became more intimate. It was a private holiday that just she and I shared. Now we share a daughter and her birthday is May 5, 2006. How fitting that Meryl's birthday is on Cinco de Mayo when our trip to Mexico, which occurred two weeks into her gestation, was my daughter's first foreign travel experience. At the time, we had no idea. In utero, Meryl had sangria, she ate the salsa and she even drank the water.

Had she been a boy, we were thinking Montezuma.

Baby pictures

On May 5, 2006 at 3:05 in the afternoon my whole world changed.

Please don't wear sweatpants out of the house

Remember that old adage about not leaving home without wearing clean underwear? The fear was that if you got into a car crash and the paramedics, whose job apparently was to immediately pull down the pants of the wounded, were to notice you're tightie whities weren't so tidy you would then receive substandard emergency aid. Dirty underwear isn't something I've had to worry about for some time because . . . well I'll save it for Six More Weird Slash Interesting Things about Me . . . but I did recently commit a social faux pas that was equally if not far more heinous.

I was on the way to Subway and the grocery store to pick up some sandwiches and Reese's miniatures. I know this doesn't sound all that nurtritious but I'm on the Fatkins diet, what can I say? After locating the new 44-ounce bag (yes, just over two pounds) of chocolatey quasi-peanut buttery goodness, I headed to the registers to check out. Alas, at the register with the shortest line I spotted one of my wife's coworkers and her husband. She's more than a coworker really. We've had the pleasure of puppysitting their Beagle, Lucy. Under normal circumstances I would have no qualms about sharing a cashier with Lucy's parents and saying hello, but I wasn't dressed my best. Come to think of it, I wasn't dressed anywhere close to my best. I did have on a banded collared shirt complete with sweater vest and dress shoes, but moments before leaving the house my wife made me take off the dress slacks I had on so she could wash them. I replaced them with -- get out the smelling salts --- sweatpants.

For those who think it's just fine to wear sweatpants out of the house, let me take a moment to admonish you. You should feel ashamed just as I felt ashamed. Not even the finest cover model looks good in sweats. Face it, when you see someone publicly donning sweatpants, you want to look the other way. They really should be reserved for cleaning around the house and late-night tv parties spent on the couch with a pint of Haagen Dazs and no one else around.

There, now that that's out of the way, let's return to our regularly scheduled blog entry.

After opting not to make small talk with the librarian and her beau, I made my way to the next register where a woman was unloading her groceries onto the conveyor. Then I realized it wasn't just any woman in the checkout line, it was an exgirlfriend in the checkout line. And I don't mean someone with whom I parted ways after one night of cheap cinema, chain restaurant food and no kiss. I mean someone with whom I parted ways after almost four years of spit swapping, concert going, family function escorting, loving, caring, arguing, makeup loving and all the hooha that goes along with all of those things. This woman had seen me naked. Come to think of it, she had even seen me in sweatpants.

But not today, I thought.

So I wandered down to the last register and rang up my 44-ounces of future root canal via the self checkout. That really is where people in sweatpants should pay for their groceries anyway, don't you think? I promptly paid the Spanish-English bilingual cyber-cashier who reminded me to take my change and my receipt and then headed for the car, ashamed for having worn sweatpants out of the house and forlorn for not having said hello to an old flame.

As I was climbing into my car I remembered that through the years of dating said flame, my then mode of transportation and the condition in which I kept it was a constant source of frustration and debate for us. I drove an '83 beat up handed down Camaro which still bore the unslightly scars of an auto accident I managed to get myself into years earlier. People who knew me then would tell you that the ugliness of the outside of the car paled in comparison to the ugliness inside. The floorboards alone were littered with fast food bags, Diet Coke cans, empty fry containers, half-empty fry containers, cigarette packs and college papers from several quarters ago. I suffered from both an addiction to nicotine and an aversion to cleaning out my ashtray which as a result was piled high with old, stale extinguished cigarette butts. My brother once referred to it as cigarette art. My father warned that if I were ever pulled over, I would be cited for operating a fire hazard. And as for the old flame who I might add was the daughter of a General Motors employee and she always judged people not by the content of their character (except in my case of course) but by the make and model of their car, I don't know what bothered her more, the condition I kept my car in or the fact that it didn't bother me. I would promptly point out to her that on my side of the floorboard where I needed unhindered access to the gas and brake pedal there was no such garbage and what she did with her side of the car and the condition she kept it in was her own business. Can you imagine why she would have stayed with me as long as she did?

I can, but I'll save it for another Six Weird Slash Interesting Things about Me.

I now drive a late model eight-cylinder SUV that boasts luxury car status. Yes, I know it only gets forty miles to the tank and I have to take out a second mortgage just to get the oil changed on it, but it's a Mercedes. I wanted her to see me in it. Is that shallow? I decided to circle the Kroger one time and see if by chance and intelligent design I could accidentally on purpose bump into her in the parking lot.

Mission accomplished.

She was loading groceries into her trunk and had a little tyke watching from the seat of the grocery cart. Oddly enough, she parked two spaces down from Lucy's mom and dad. I pulled up beside the ex's car, rolled down my window and asked, "Excuse me, Ma'am, don't I know you?" Cheesy intro, I know, but she played along.

"Yeh, I think so. How've you been?" She had a great smile and by the looks of her she had lost a pound for every one I had gained. Her daugher, one of two I soon learned, had her mother's eyes and hair color. At four years of age, she was just the cutest kid and looking at her made me wish my yet-to-be-born daughter would hurry up and get to that stage. I complimented her daughter on her snazzy outfit. The kid, after spotting the bag of candy in the front seat, asked her mom if she could sit in my car which I thought was flattering. The ex and I chatted about people from our shared past, jobs, kids, birthing and making baby food. I asked her to check to make sure I put the car seat in correctly and she gave me the thumbs up.

It was somewhat strange, not that she had lost weight or even that she now had kids, but that somehow she seemed so . . . maternal. With her daughter she was nurturing and caring. I never would have pictured her that way when we were dating. And yet there was something oddly comforting in seeing that quality in her. In recent years she had reached one of the pinnacle of womanhood. Motherhood. It made me realize that soon I'm going to look at my own wife in that same way. And I relish that.

The next day my wife called me from work to say that when she explained to her coworker why I had seen her at Kroger but didn't say hello, her coworker asked if I was the creepy guy in the red SUV who pulled up next to that woman with her kid and asked if I knew them. Lucy's parents, who apparently didn't recognize the face of the man who welcomed their Beagle into his home, mistook me for some ne'er-do-well with evil intentions. They suspected I was a kidnapper, the kind of stranger who masquerades as the friend of a gullible kid's parents and then uses the promise of candy to lure the kid into the backseat! Can you believe that? Librarians are a strange breed, believe you me.

Anyhow, don't wear sweats out of the house. I'm just saying.